is a great satisfaction, indeed, my dear,” said Lady Delacour. “It is a pity that your countenance, which is usually expressive enough, should not at this instant obey your wishes and express perfect felicity. But though you feel no pain from disappointed affection, doubtless the concern that you show arises from the necessity you are under of withdrawing a portion of your esteem from Mr. Hervey — this is the style for you, is it not? After all, my dear, the whole maybe a quizzification of Sir Philip’s — and yet he gave me such a minute description of her person! I am sure the man has not invention or taste enough to produce such a fancy piece.”
“Did he mention,” said Belinda, in a low voice, “the colour of her hair?”
“Yes, light brown; but the colour of this hair seems to affect you more than all the rest.”
Here, to Belinda’s great relief, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Marriott. From all she had heard, but especially from the agreement between the colour of the hair which dropped from Hervey’s letter with Sir Philip’s description of Virginia’s, Miss Portman was convinced that Clarence had some secret attachment; and she could not help blaming him in her own mind for having, as she thought, endeavoured to gain her affections, whilst he knew that his heart was engaged to another. Mr. Hervey, however, gave her no farther reason to suspect him of any design to win her love; for about this time his manner towards her changed — he obviously endeavoured to avoid her; his visits were short, and his attention was principally directed to Lady Delacour; when she retired, he took his leave, and Sir Philip Baddely had the field to himself. The baronet, who thought that he had succeeded in producing a coldness between Belinda and his rival, was surprised to find that he could not gain any advantage for himself; for some time he had not the slightest thoughts of any serious connexion with the lady, but at last he was piqued by her indifference, and by the raillery of his friend Rochfort.
“‘Pon honour,” said Rochfort, “the girl must be in love with Clary, for she minds you no more than if you were nobody.”
“I could make her sing to another tune, if I pleased,” said Sir Philip; “but, damme, it would cost me too much — a wife’s too expensive a thing, now-a-days. Why, a man could have twenty curricles, and a fine stud, and a pack of hounds, and as many mistresses as he chooses into the bargain, for what it would cost him to take a wife. Oh, damme, Belinda Portman’s a fine girl, but not worth so much as that comes to; and yet, confound me, if I should not like to see how blue Clary would look, if I were to propose for her in good earnest — hey, Rochfort? — I should like to pay him for the way he served us about that quiz of a doctor, hey?”
“Ay,” said Rochfort, “you know he told us there was a tant pis and a tant mieux in every thing — he’s not come to the tant pis yet. ‘Pon honour, Sir Philip, the thing rests with you.”
The baronet vibrated for some time between the fear of being taken in by one of Mrs. Stanhope’s nieces, and the hope of triumphing over Clarence Hervey. At last, what he called love prevailed over prudence, and he was resolved, cost him what it would, to have Belinda Portman. He had not the least doubt of being accepted, if he made a proposal of marriage; consequently, the moment that he came to this determination, he could not help assuming d’avance the tone of a favoured lover.
“Damme,” cried Sir Philip, one night, at Lady Delacour’s concert, “I think that Mr. Hervey has taken out a patent for talking to Miss Portman; but damme if I give up this place, now I have got it,” cried the baronet, seating himself beside Belinda.
Mr. Hervey did not contest his seat, and Sir Philip kept his post during the remainder of the concert; but, though he had the field entirely to himself, he could not think of any thing more interesting, more amusing, to whisper in Belinda’s ear, than, “Don’t you think the candles want snuffing famously?”
Chapter 12. — The Macaw.
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THE BARONET DETERMINED the next day upon the grand attack. He waited upon Miss Portman with the certainty of being favourably received; but he was, nevertheless, somewhat embarrassed to know how to begin the conversation, when he found himself alone with the lady.
He twirled and twisted a short stick that he held in his hand, and put it into and out of his boot twenty times, and at last he began with —“Lady Delacour’s not gone to Harrowgate yet?”
“No: her ladyship has not yet felt herself well enough to undertake the journey.”
“That was a cursed unlucky overturn! She may thank Clarence Hervey for that: it’s like him — he thinks he’s a better judge of horses, and wine, and every thing else, than any body in the world. Damme, now if I don’t believe he thinks nobody else but himself has eyes enough to see that a fine woman’s a fine woman; but I’d have him to know, that Miss Belinda Portman has been Sir Philip Baddely’s toast these two months.”
As this intelligence did not seem to make the expected impression upon Miss Belinda Portman, Sir Philip had recourse again to his little stick, with which he went through the sword exercise. After a silence of some minutes, and after walking to the window, and back again, as if to look for sense, he exclaimed, “How is Mrs. Stanhope now, pray, Miss Portman? and your sister, Mrs. Tollemache? she was the finest woman, I thought, the first winter she came out, that ever I saw, damme. Have you ever been told that you’re like her?”
“Never, sir.”
“Oh, damn it then, but you are; only ten times handsomer.”
“Ten times handsomer than the finest woman you ever saw, Sir Philip?” said Belinda, smiling.
“Than the finest woman I had ever seen then,” said Sir Philip; “for, damme, I did not know what it was to be in love then“ (here the baronet heaved an audible sigh): “I always laughed at love, and all that, then, and marriage particularly. I’ll trouble you for Mrs. Stanhope’s direction, Miss Portman; I believe, to do the thing in style, I ought to write to her before I speak to you.”
Belinda looked at him with astonishment; and laying down the pencil with which she had just begun to write a direction to Mrs. Stanhope, she said, “Perhaps, Sir Philip, to do the thing in style, I ought to pretend at this instant not to understand you; but such false delicacy might mislead you: permit me, therefore, to say, that if I have any concern in the letter which you, are going to write to my aunt Stanhope ——”
“Well guessed!” interrupted Sir Philip: “to be sure you have, and you’re a charming girl — damn me if you aren’t — for meeting my ideas in this way, which will save a cursed deal of trouble,” added the polite lover, seating himself on the sofa, beside Belinda.
“To prevent your giving yourself any further trouble then, sir, on my account,” said Miss Portman ——
“Nay, damme, don’t catch at that unlucky word, trouble, nor look so cursed angry; though it becomes you, too, uncommonly, and I like pride in a handsome woman, if it was only for variety’s sake, for it’s not what one meets with often, now-a-days. As to trouble, all I meant was, the trouble of writing to Mrs. Stanhope, which of course I thank you for saving me; for to be sure, I’d rather (and you can’t blame me for that) have my answer from your own charming lips, if it was only for the pleasure of seeing you blush in this heavenly sort of style.”
“To put an end to this heavenly sort of style, sir,” said Belinda, withdrawing her hand, which the baronet took as if he was confident of its being his willing prize, “I must explicitly assure you, that it is not in my power to encourage your addresses. I am fully sensible,” added Miss Portman, “of the honour Sir Philip Baddely has done me, and I hope he will not be offended by the frankness of my answer.”
“You can’t be in earnest, Miss Portman!” exclaimed the astonished baronet.
“Perfectly in earnest, Sir Philip.”
“Confusion